Page 55 of The Feared Duke’s Found Family

Michael took two slow steps toward the window, his wide gray eyes reflecting the golden light flooding the floorboards. “It isn’t scary at all,” he whispered, looking up at Fanny with a tiny, wondrous smile. “It just needed the sun.”

“Everything looks better in the sun, Michael,” Fanny said gently, kneeling beside him to untie the silk ribbon of her bonnet and letting it fall onto a nearby chair.

She looked across the illuminated room, watching Sarah and Hetty carefully fold back the canvas covers on the rosewood sofas. The maids were chatting softly now, their former stiffness gone as Peter asked Hetty fifty questions about the ships painted in the background of the Hilgrove family portraits.

For the first time since she had arrived at the estate, the vast, oppressive stone walls of the manor felt less like a fortress of grief and more like a home waking from a long, cold winter.

Fanny pulled Michael gently against her side, watching Emily carefully inspect a porcelain mantle clock, and felt a quiet, fierce certainty settle into her heart. They were turning the key, bit by bit, and no dark shadow was going to lock these doors again.

Twenty-One

Lysander stood at the tall sash window of his study, his hands clasped tightly behind the small of his back as he stared down at the driveway.

A heavy, crested traveling coach had just rounded the bend of the gravel drive, followed closely by a smaller chaise. He felt a familiar, involuntary tightness take root in his jaw, the muscle flexing hard against the leather of his high collar.

For years, Hilgrove Manor had existed as a closed circle—predictable, silent, and entirely under his command. Inviting external noise across his threshold, let alone the notoriously loud Waldron family, went against every protective instinct he possessed.

Yet, as he watched the carriage come to a halt before the main portico, the memory of Fanny standing in this very room weeks ago flickered in his mind. She had looked at him with those warm, defiant eyes, accusing him of turning his house into a tomb and treating her loved ones like trespassers. He had refused her then out of habit and cold self-preservation.

He had signed the invitations himself three days ago. It was a concession, a deliberate cracking of his own armor, because he had come to realize that keeping Fanny isolated was a cruelty he could no longer justify.

Lysander turned from the window, pulled down the cuffs of his dark coat, and made his way down the grand staircase.

The front hall was already a scene of absolute, chaotic color.

The heavy oak front doors stood wide open, letting in the cool air and a flurry of high-pitched barking, rustling silk, and silver laughter. Fanny’s mother was handing a towering velvet bonnet to a bewildered footman, her wrist draped in fluttering ribbons. At her feet, three small, squashed-faced fawn pugs scrambled across the polished flagstones, their claws clicking sharply on the marble as they sniffed the corners of the hall.

Beside her stood Blanche, looking calm and regal in a plum cloak, while eight-year-old Anastasia darted past her toward the garden doors, holding a flat wooden box under her arm.

“Lysander?”

The soft, breathless sound of his name drew his gaze to the foot of the stairs.

Fanny stood near the hall table, her amber eyes wide with unmistakable shock. Her lips were parted slightly, her hand hovering over the lace at her collar as her gaze flicked from her sister to him, then back again.

A sharp, unfamiliar spike of heat pressed behind Lysander’s ribs as he met her gaze. The sheer surprise on her face was instantly replaced by a brilliant, radiant smile that seemed to light up the dark wainscoting of the hall. He kept his features carved in their usual quiet discipline, but his chest swelled with a strange, heavy warmth.

“You invited them,” Fanny whispered, stepping toward him as the rest of her family scattered into the reception parlor. Her voice was low, laced with breathless wonder that made his pulse hitch. “You brought them here.”

“You informed me weeks ago that this household lacked proper company,” Lysander replied smoothly, keeping his baritone steady and low so it barely reached her ears. “And that your niece would prove a suitable companion for Emily.”

“Lysander…” She stepped half a step closer, her skirts brushing his boots. The scent of sweet orange blossom and warm skin drifted up to him, instantly pulling his mind back to the quiet bedchamber they had shared nights ago.

Before she could speak another word, Lady Gooldwer’s theatrical voice boomed from the doorway. “Fanny! Dearest girl, where on earth do you keep the tea? The carriage springs on the south road have thoroughly ruined my back!”

“Right here, Mother,” Fanny called out, her voice dropping into an effortless, soothing rhythm. She offered Lysander one last, lingering look—a glance so full of quiet, unspoken gratitude that it felt like a physical touch against his skin—before turning to smooth the chaos.

Lysander moved to the perimeter of the drawing room, retreating into the shadow of the carved marble mantle. He crossed his broad arms over his chest, his gray eyes tracking Fanny as she moved through the room.

It was extraordinary to watch her.

Where he saw an overwhelming, disorganized wave of voices and demands, Fanny moved like a steady, graceful current. She did not wait for anyone to ask for help. Before her mother could fully settle onto the sofa, Fanny had already placed a plush velvet cushion behind the woman’s back and handed her a steaming cup of tea, brewed precisely to her liking.

When young Anastasia tripped over the hem of her cloak, Fanny was there instantly, catching the girl by the elbows with a light, musical laugh before the child could tear her ribbons. When Blanche reached for a napkin, Fanny had already passed the silver tray. She anticipated every subtle shift in the room, her presence smoothing over every potential friction before anyone even thought to call her name.

She was everywhere at once, bright, smiling, and completely unburdened. A fierce, possessive knot tightened in Lysander’s throat as he watched the firelight catch the golden threads in her hair. She belonged to this vast, warm family, yet she was his Duchess—a woman who had walked into his cold, silent fortress and systematically filled it with light.

From the corner near the window seat, a small, rhythmic sound caught his attention. Michael sat beside Anastasia, his small legs dangling over the edge of the cushions as the young girl opened her wooden box. Lysander’s focus shifted instantly, his sharp eyes narrowing as his son let out a small, dry cough.